“I found her, Madam, and I wondered…” Baggage took a deep breath. “Oh, won’t you let me keep her?”
“Her?” Madam Manzoni’s eyes lit up as they had for the cakes. “Bring the baby to me … and some more of those éclairs while you are at it.”
Chapter 5
In which Baggage makes a deal and Twill finds a home
Twill, by the time Baggage brought her to Madam Manzoni, was in a state of great contentment. She had been fed on rich warm milk and washed and cleaned and was now lying in a crate that had once contained aged whisky, looking cherubic, with her big blue eyes, dark curling lashes and a smattering of golden curls upon her head.
“Well, well,” said Madam, when the babe was lifted so that she might see her better. “What a pretty little caterpillar. Where did you say you found the creature, Baggage?”
“In a rubbish heap,” said Baggage. “She looked so cold and hungry. I coutn’t just leave ’er, ma’am!”
“You have a kind heart, Baggage,” said Madam, her chins trembling as she spoke. “But how exactly were you planning to feed her, pay for her keep – hmm?”
“I d-don’t know, Ma’am,” stammered Baggage. “I thought—”
“Did you, Baggage? Did you really think? A child is an expensive thing to rear. An investment. The outlay in food alone is considerable, and then there is clothing to think of, other expenses. Did you think of that?”
“No, Ma’am but I hoped—”
“Hoped?” Madam’s chins now wobbled so violently that Baggage was reminded of a giant blancmange. “Hope won’t put food on the table or money in the bank. You cannot raise a child on hope alone!”
“She can share my food,” said Baggage – quite sincere in the offer, even though she herself subsisted on the meanest scraps from the kitchen leftovers and often went to bed hungry. “Oh, Madam, please!”
As it happened, Madam Manzoni had already made up her mind, but she waved her little white hand to indicate that Baggage should feed her another éclair. Then, with her mouth full of chocolate and cream, she heaved her colossal bosom and gave an expressive shrug.
“Very well, you may keep her. But on certain conditions.”
“Oh, Madam, anything!”
“It will be your responsibility to keep her out of the way of the Black Jack clientele – no bother, not a whimper are we to hear. It must be as if she were invisible and inaudible.”
“Oh yes, Madam,” said Baggage, and Twill herself responded with a gurgle to express her delight and compliance.
“Caring for her must not interfere with your regular work,” Madam went on, licking her lips to catch the last of the cream.
“It won’t, Madam. I promise!”
“I will agree to feed and clothe the child but she will be indentured to me.” Madam Manzoni paused and Baggage obligingly popped another éclair into her waiting lips so that her next words were delivered through a mouthful of pastry. “Mr Scapegrace will draw up a contract. As soon as she is old enough, she must repay the debt she has incurred.”
“Yes, yes!” In truth, Baggage wasn’t quite sure what an indenture was but she would have said anything to keep Twill.
“And if she blossoms.” Madam Manzoni’s eyes glittered as she eyed the little grub in the box. “If she grows pretty wings, then one day she may enter the Butterfly boudoir.”
Baggage’s heart fluttered anxiously, but baby Twill cooed and beamed from her box as if in assent – and thus her fate was sealed.
Chapter 6
In which time passes and Twill grows wings
The passing of years wrought many changes across the land. A new young queen came to the throne; a group of downtrodden heroes rose up to fight for the vote – and lost; the first railway opened in London; the fashion for greatcoats came – and went; the iniquitous practice of slavery was abolished – throughout the British Empire at least; and a fire – reputedly started by a jealous mistress – destroyed Lloyd’s Coffee House.
In the Black Jack Gaming Hell, change was also afoot. Baggage herself had grown older but no more beautiful, saved from the rubbish heap only by ever more extraordinary feats of patisserie magic. She had taken to asking Bob, the errand boy from the local butcher’s shop, to search out the latest exotic ingredients – herbs and spices and suchlike – on his trips to Borough Market. These she whisked, folded and wove into ever more glorious culinary concoctions. Since Bob did not share the general view on Baggage’s appearance (having a fondness for dishwater-grey eyes and finding her crumpled face reminded him of the lopsided buns to which he was very partial) he was always happy to oblige, and thus Baggage’s baking kept her firmly in Madam Manzoni’s employ.
Time, as our good readers probably know, had made a great impression on the life of the young man known as Oliver Twist. He had passed from orphan-who-asked-for-more; to the runaway-undertaker’s apprentice; to pickpocket-vagabond and smallest member of a gang of housebreakers; to the cherished and adored adopted heir to Mr Brownlow. His fortunes had dipped and roller-coastered and finally risen, and he now sat enthroned in his guardian’s heart as the most beloved and fortunate of boys.
And time had wrought great changes upon his sister too. Young Twill was now – at nearly thirteen years of age – clearly no longer a grub by anyone’s standards. Brought up in the Black Jack kitchens but protected from the Spoon by Baggage (who had proved herself as fierce as Mrs Spanks in defence of her darling), Twill had grown into a girl of warm heart, peerless beauty and dauntless temper. For whereas her twin brother Oliver had grown up unloved and neglected for the first decade of his life, Twill was the darling of the Black Jack. Everyone adored her – everyone except Mrs Spanks. The Butterflies petted her, Baggage doted on her, and she was the apple in the rheumy eye of Mr Scapegrace, the wiry old lawyer who stayed at the Black Jack who-knew-why. In any case, Twill was a universal favourite.
The Butterflies taught Twill the art of card-playing and face-painting; Baggage imparted the wisdom of buttercream and blind baking; and Mr Scapegrace taught her to read and write – for Baggage insisted that her Twill should be raised to greater things than the boudoir. In fact, she had long since come to the realisation that life as a Butterfly was as short-lived and precarious as it was glamorous, and she wanted better for Twill.
She was thus determined that her darling should be educated and it had not been difficult to persuade Mr Scapegrace to take on the task of “reading and writing her”, as Baggage put it. The little mole of a man, who spent his days behind a desk, buried under piles of promissory notes and pawnbrokers’ slips and deeds of title, refused to accept the pennies Baggage offered him in return for this education. For Twill proved a most delightful pupil – quick, eager to learn and with an insatiable curiosity – so that poor dear, dusty Mr Scapegrace soon found the hour he spent with the girl to be the highlight of his day.
And what of Twill herself – of her hopes and dreams? Well, when she wasn’t skivvying in the Black Jack kitchens, or reading tales of Arabian nights and Trojan horses or puzzling through the riddles of Pythagoras with Mr Scapegrace, Twill lived the life of intrepid adventurer and explorer to rival the great Dr Livingstone himself – and the borough of Southwark was her kingdom.
Twill Jones of the Black Jack was considered the out-and-out leader of the Camberwell Grove kids – the collection of scraps and urchins, kitchen girls and errand boys from Grove Lane right the way up to Denmark Hill. She devised their games, egged them to feats of daring, and organised their raids and battles against the railway workers’ kids from Peckham Rye.
She liked to read in Mr Scapegrace’s books of lands far away, of epic battles fought, pirates on the high seas, of mangrove swamps and rainforests swarming with monkeys and birds of every colour – and she dreamed one day of going to all those places. For now the scope of her existence stretched only from Forest Hill to Dulwich Village, but her imagination populated those streets and parks and alleyways with elephants and lions, bloodthirsty plunderers,
swamps, forests, coral reefs and golden sands where buried treasures lay.
And so Twill grew up, happy as a sparrow, content as one of the stray cats that lived off scraps from the Black Jack kitchens. The only regrettable consequence of the passing years, as Baggage saw it, was that Twill had begun to show signs of turning into the most glorious of Butterflies. And Baggage was not wrong. If her brother had been considered a cherubic-looking child, Twill shared all his angelic beauty, but her big blue eyes also shone with a fierce light and there was a determined tilt to her chin and firm set to her rose-petal mouth that reflected her fearless temper.
And now Baggage’s every effort was invested in keeping this information from Madam Manzoni. The Butterflies were all enlisted in the effort. Where once they had enjoyed painting the little girl with rouge and wrapping her in their finest silks, now she was banned from the boudoir, allowed to wear only the meanest of rags and, of late, Baggage had resorted to covering her darling’s face with soot to prevent Mrs Spanks from catching a glimpse of the beauty of which Twill herself was unaware.
“Why must I have muck all over my face?” Twill demanded one cold March morning as Baggage dabbed her nose with coal dust from the fireplace and bundled her golden curls roughly up under a grubby mob-cap, which she insisted Twill wear at all times. “I mean, I don’t mind. It’s handy when we’re trying to ambush the Peckham Rye posse, but—”
“I told you,” said Baggage. “It protects you from…”
“From what, Baggage?” Twill gazed at her beloved Baggage – whom she regarded as part mother, part older sister – with a curious smile.
“From bad things,” Baggage said hastily, with a tilt of her chin and a twist of her lips that forbade Twill to ask any more. “Now, enough wi’ your questions, missy! There’s fires to be laid an’ a million an’ one jobs besides. Today is a big day in the Black Jack an’ I don’t have time for your endless questions. Save those for Mr Scapegrace an’ your book learnin’!”
It was indeed a big day and all the inhabitants of the Black Jack were in a flutter of excitement. Madam Manzoni had recently had word that one of her most regular young pigeons, the son of the Duke of Whatshisname-or-Whatever (nobody was quite sure what or where) had that day come into his inheritance. This was in consequence of the unfortunate death of his father, who had choked on a ruby signet ring. His son – now the new young Duke of Whatshisname-or-Wherever – was known for his wild and reckless ways and his gloriously bad luck at cards. He was one of the best contributors to the Black Jack roll of debtors and Madam Manzoni had great hopes that, now that he was a man of means, he might finally be able to discharge his outstanding bill – and then contrive to lose the rest of his newly acquired fortune at her tables.
To this end, a great party was being thrown in the young Duke of Whatshisname’s honour. No expense was to be spared to christen the new peer of the realm, and so everyone in the Black Jack was in a flat spin, polishing the plates, bringing up the best champagne from the cellars, preparing lobster tureen, turtle soup, pigeon pie and all the other little delicacies that the new Duke of Whatshisname was known to favour.
The centrepiece of the celebratory feast was to be a giant confectionary creation – a coming-of-age cake to be presented to Madam’s new favourite client. Baggage had been ordered to bring this patisserie production to life in just a few short hours, and when Madam Manzoni called for her morning cup of chocolate and petit-fours, Baggage was in the middle of a particularly tricky feat of spun sugar work that demanded no interruption.
“Let the girl take it,” said Mrs Spanks, nodding over to where Twill was polishing a pile of silver spoons.
“No!” Baggage looked up from her sugar artistry in alarm. “But – she … can’t!”
“Oh – and why can’t she?” said Mrs Spanks, wielding her Spoon in a most interesting manner.
“I can go!” Baggage declared. But as she was currently at a critical moment in the process of creating a sugary-light birds’ nest to replicate the pigeon on the new duke’s coat of arms, this statement was evidently insupportable.
“Madam asked for the girl!” said Mrs Spanks, with a triumphant glimmer in her eye. For, in truth, Mrs Spanks had for some time been aware of both Twill’s burgeoning beauty and Baggage’s attempts to hide it from Madam Manzoni. She had kept this knowledge to herself, biding her time and holding her patience, waiting for the most opportune moment to share it with her employer.
And now that moment had come.
“She … she asked for her?” Baggage’s arms dropped and the sugar nest teetered precariously.
“Most particularly. Wants to discuss her indenture, I’m told…” Mrs Spanks spun the Spoon like a baton and Baggage’s eyes widened in alarm, putting the nest in yet more jeopardy.
“I’ll go!” said Twill after Spanks had left, unaware of the jeopardy she was in. “I’ll be in and out in no time.”
“Here.” Baggage kept one hand on the endangered sugar work, and with the other scooped a mess of chocolate ganache from the pot at her side and smeared it on Baggage’s face. Then she contorted her whole body to grab some cinders from the fires and apply them to Twill’s face, all the while continuing to feather the Duke’s nest with sugary additions.
“What you doing to me, Baggage?” Twill protested, blinking her eyes and coughing as the coal dust caught in her throat.
“Never should ’ave allowed ’er to grow so beautiful…” Baggage was muttering to herself. “Foolish, foolish… Now, can you squint your eye a little – so?”
Twill attempted a squint which seemed to only half satisfy Baggage.
“When she addresses you, I want you to talk out of the corner of your mouth – as if half your face was frozen,” Baggage went on, doing such a comical impression that it made Twill giggle.
“This is no laughin’ matter!” Baggage insisted, continuing to spin the sugar. “You an’ I both knows that a Butterfly’s career is over in the flutter of a wing. You’re too good for that, my Twill.” She looked so desperately sad that Twill stopped giggling. “P’rhaps stoop a little.” Baggage continued to think. “Or maybe if I popped in a little somethin’ to give you an ’ump…”
Baggage was looking around for a dishcloth to stuff down the back of Twill’s blouse, and wondering if a bit of dough might serve to create a malformed nose, when Mrs Spanks reappeared, looking ready to do battle with the Spoon as her sabre.
“Hurry up, girl! Madam is calling for her sweetmeats! She particularly asked for violet creams!”
“I promise I’ll be in and out in a moment,” said Twill to the anxious-looking Baggage. “She’ll barely notice me!”
“Lawks, girl!” said Baggage, surveying her hasty handiwork with anxiety. “You best hope she don’t, or we is all in a world of trouble!”
Chapter 7
In which the dangers of beauty are expounded and Baggage makes a big decision
Twill was incorrect in thinking she would pass unnoticed. Madam Manzoni prided herself on knowing everything that happened within the walls of the Black Jack. Though she never strayed from her chaise-longue she knew every detail of what passed under her roof, largely thanks to the good offices of Mrs Spanks and Mr Scapegrace. And, in truth, she had been wondering of late about the little girl Baggage had found in the snow. Mr Scapegrace, normally her most attentive and obliging of household spies, was decidedly unforthcoming about the girl, describing her as “barely noteworthy … slow, dull … disappointing,” and Mrs Spanks – her less adoring but no less willing informant – had also been rather lacking with information. Until this morning.
Mrs Spanks had a taste for drama and had thus awaited the optimum moment to impart the news of Twill’s budding beauty to her mistress. Baggage’s baking had raised her in the old lady’s esteem to an extent that Mrs Spanks had come to resent, and on this day when the coming-of-age cake look set to crown Baggage’s triumph, Mrs Spanks had seen her chance to bring her rival down.
And so it was th
at, while Mr Scapegrace had described the girl as unremarkable, Mrs Spanks now imparted quite another tale. Indeed, her eyes glimmered with such delicious malice as she spoke of the little girl’s charms that Madam had grown quite impatient to see her. And the revelation could not have been more timely.
For some time now, the latest Pearl-of-the-Night had been looking a little ragged-around-the-edges. She was nearing the grand old age of twenty-five, and Madam Manzoni was thinking it was time to let this Butterfly loose in the garden. She would be needing a new Pearl to grace the piquet table, and tonight was a perfect opportunity to inaugurate Baggage’s girl into the Butterfly boudoir.
Twill was unaware of any of this as she entered the room, back hunched, eye scrunched, mouth lopsided. She had added in a little drooling and a dragging leg for good measure, basing her performance on that of the old signalman up at Denmark Hill station who walked with a lolloping stomp. Nonetheless, she took no chances, approaching Madam Manzoni from behind her chaise-longue, hoping to place her tray of violet creams on the little table without being seen at all. And if it hadn’t been for the books she might have got away with it.
It was the books that were the problem. Twill had never been in Madam’s morning room before, and nobody had told her that there were shelves lined with volume upon volume (though Madam had never opened a single one – and there was some suspicion that they weren’t real books at all, but only a decorative collection of leather spines). And therein lay the problem. For the collection in Mr Scapegrace’s dusty little office was modest, and Twill had read most of its contents at least three times and had lately begun to long for more variety in her literary diet. And now here she was confronted with a leather-bound feast.
“Is that you, Baggage?” demanded Madam, who had been alerted by the odd drag of Twill’s foot. She strained to turn her mountainous form without success.
Another Twist in the Tale Page 2
